Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Where To Order A Red Velvet Cake In Toronto

weather is a poet whose poetry

Dom wrote Corriera songs for young and poems for children. He rhymes the weather with the child and it is always the man for him is not yet out of the woods where fabulous Francois Villon sneers with Arthur Rimbaud despairs humans. Thus man is still an idea that very few of us agree. Fortunately (fortunatly), there are women for honor and lift our hearts above shattered. Like most major misogynist, Dom Corriera falls very often worship in the manner of a saint astray without god nor master. Defoliating unrepentant, he would be able to rob the dead to go below the smell of a corolla of layered petticoats. Moreover, each woman will change does not clump of carnations, daisies, roses or lilies in his writing of lovesick? The names of legendary heroines illuminate its firmament. By vagabond noble and proud, he knows the madness of nights that extend up the ecstasy of morning " in the dew of the rut . By itself, it forms a band in turn organized or disorganized depending on the mood and temperature of the moment. He composed more than he writes and goes singing jingles " the proper wind whistling " to make life more beautiful, eternal ... Amateur excellent local wines, much like a jeering Jehan Rictus or Gaston Cost , it impels us in painfully faithful friendship of his intoxication. Listen to him simply sing and say the spells of freedom and rebellion elected idiots on the knees of Beauty:

ONZAIN carmagnolesque

There was an awful winter
Days full of slobs
misery visited upon us poor devils Sandwiches
three euros fifty
Sodas, hot drinks and enjoy freedom
From our formula
Cheques, cash, credit cards accepted
Everywhere, everywhere
spiders invading the stomach Cities
kindergarten where they shouted
Pan, you're dead, lying still!

brainless by destiny
Humanity exactly like we were idiots
Eight percent richer by themselves and
Eight billion disreputable
And retired at twenty, it would be when? Both
resign first wail
Find a job and ensure
enough free time to wank
Everywhere, everywhere viewpoints
In a sky so black with no hallways, no Milky Way

far as I am myself bathed
A water fountain dark
A dirty trick pheromones
Go all drive by Simone
Who knows who you eaten
Look no smallpox
will come in time, bad luck awaits you
Everywhere everywhere kites
cheer fires Midsummer
Where one burns Carnival, Big Business

Then came the summer, going to war
Making raid white canes
bellowing death every Sunday
were made preparing our rags, our banners
On the pyre of utopian dreams Abandoning
Everywhere, everywhere, our ruins, remains our
gleamed in the eye of Argameddon
Present arms, infantry-citizens
Sink the pasodoble Democratic
Hi come on the threshold of your death.
Dom Corriera / Marseille / June 2010

Hill (enigma syllabic)

Saul and dripping from the terrors of childhood, the ectoplasm of the man climbed the hill illunée. Road at night when unpredictable rain listen to jingle in the branches. With each drop one to one and each offering a sound, a syllable to sing, ectoplasm walking, mumbling. And staggers, gesticulating with great strides, not wrong, welcoming the news that death toads dressed in their Sunday best. He raises his arms toward the fluorescent cloud and speaks only to his mobile phone, seeking a name, one syllable. Cough, spits, still spell the name as if it were a magic formula. Forgotten now friends left the river barges that displayed gray heavy and impassive ducks. Forgotten bottles, laughs, forgotten aria staggering Coltrane and wines of all dresses, all mourning. Distraught, disheveled, ectoplasm climbs painfully on the back of the hill. Behind, beyond, is a Heritage Village and its cemetery. Cries, coughs, spits piss and his lungs, he's falling backwards into a ditch of nettles, imploring, hallucinating, the image that will never be near him, forever distant and silent. Neither the bloated moon, or the gravel along the path of faith will not retain the sweet sounds of these enigmatic syllables that haunt him. He feels the hill, which swells, breathing in his footsteps. Drunk and crazy oozing pity, he coughs, shouts, sings and weeps her face looked, half hidden by her hair at night. From heaven, his face still looks a shadow divided, torn. A voice so pure it pierces that face a constellation of tears ... he falls, slips, skids and flips on the cold earth of the hill panting. Enigma the voice of the breath caressing the curves of crystal fields, the hill that breathes like a woman's breast. Behind beyond, is a village childhood and innocence evaporated, the cemetery blooms missing. La-down, up, so powerful and so deep, a cryptic puzzle, a name that disappears beneath the clouds of torn sails gleaming through which both eyes shine cosmic suspended. Two planets are lustrous black and fierce desperate energy, that which is called "divine light". Imploded A look of love, a great clamor irradiating the Universal vault, unnecessary and serene. Falls, coughs, spits and piss and stumbles ectoplasm of man still rekindling his laptop and then turning it off in the fine mist and the moon May. Where are Coltrane and friends of the river slow? Bottles, glasses and laughter in battle ... You see that hill, which swells, breathing? She is a woman's breast lay on layers of oversight, a sleeper eternal image of a creed impossible to paradise unexplored syllable quivering desire. How long, you cherish the rain ricochets and tinkles cascading arpeggios in boiling liquid on your forehead. Tomb, staggers, shouts and despairs. An uncertain idea of man, under the eyelids where heavenly sleep, go out with the dawning day, the mysterious signs of dawn. Endless barking of childhood, early morning welcomes the barn. The shade dried human wends its way between the cords of wood, sits down and falls asleep by reciting his breviary, his endless enigma syllabic:
" Syllables cryptic
where shoes Sabbath
s 'spoil, spoil, spoil.

Dom Corriera , unpublished


Photo : Dom Corriera the banks of the Wolf by Andre Chenet

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Singaporedriving License In Bali


" Still what remains of fire against the cold test, and what we can perceive future blooms. " Nathalie Riera

" ... You exemptions freedom feverish and clear to all who have lost. You re-enchanted our nights with the innocence of urgent a cuckoo call invisible to the edge of the woods .. . " A. Chenet , from a letter to Natalie Riera .

the night of June 15 to 16, Nathalie Riera, poet and creator of the magazine "The books Eucharis ", his companion and her child were victims of the deadly flood that hit the Var. Their modest home was flooded by torrents of mud, farm animals were drowned, the vegetable food devastated. In extremis, they could take refuge on the roof of their "shack" with their dog. A helicopter rescued the night. Around 8am, June 16, I talked on the phone with Nathan who had not slept the night she told me was a nightmare when the waves engulfed by black everything she had built with his own, in recent months: a very small paradise which gave them just what it takes to survive as long as love poetry and do stand emperlent days and nights of unmatched beauty. Her voice had the gravity of these beings who have nothing to lose since they have already lost everything except life. All his writings, his computer, its records were covered, obliterated by mud. She asked me just to warn his friends and readers that the magazine does seem likely further long for an indefinite period would remain unreachable. The tone of his voice so tense expressed extraordinary courage. Despite the disaster, Nathalie was good, she stood beyond the despair that she was going through. Woman, wife and mother sublimely prepared to fight to recover his home, his tribe to restore the courage to overcome this "test of fate." As she described to me the visions of a country overwhelmed by a kind of liquid Apocalypse, I suddenly felt an intense joy, mad joy: it was safe, she, with her son and the man she loves.

Nathalie Riera has fully dedicated, through his acts, his writings and his work (she leads writing workshops at the Remand Prison in Aix-en-Provence) poetry, art and literature to the extent these disciplines in perpetual motion we give, probably better than any theoretical learning or moral conscience of our unlimited freedom whatsoever in sharing a common experience intense, or contemplation and meditation. The achievement of art, whatever form adopted, it is for implementation of human solidarity, the highest perhaps if the artist does not merely expose himself, but to parade "pass" vital signs that can change and evolve the human condition. Each of his "Notebooks", consisting in the love of the work to be done, fabulous open horizons of what seems to be the only conquest worthy of a human being's Insight. And for that we must put all his heart and his whole sensibility. Where intellect comes to himself and divides it subverts everything develops and dissected, where reason ignoring any sense to want to force strict, freezes the living, there remain only ruins and desolation, throughout human history shows us. It is certainly no coincidence that Nathan titled " Clairvision " one of his recent books it celebrates the thinness of its sensitive relations with the world in immediate connection with the exclusive beauty of moments that most people called civilized are no longer capable of perceiving. In this sense, it brings us back to our roots vital, where the arts of creation marry infinitely varied currents of all life forms.

Now, the urgency, I will first call for solidarity of all those who made poetry their true place of birth, axis of metamorphoses which operates the propitiatory magic words and images, those for whom poetry is the field of action of thinking beings to the good of all, I appeal to you, men and women for whom the generosity n is not the pebble that is thrown into the sky. Today, Nathan does not even have a car to move (she lives in the countryside away from towns). I suggest we all send him a check in his name, each according to his means, at: She and her family can not return to their home before September. It will make a loan in order to hold on even more reluctant than assurances already et dans le cas des meileur it verseront miettes par rapport à des que ce qu'ils ont perdu. Merci à tous

A poème de Nathalie: http://lescarnetsdeucharis.hautetfort.com/
In a fraction of time

find heart

Who spoke of death?

gardener fate

speak without ornament, which means it does not obscure
never air this

is always beyond the poetry
beyond the farthest in life

I have not withheld anything


Streams are peaceful
without fire without salt

try the right word

approximate arrival of your voice my fingers

you approach the water in the light of what we do is

in a fraction of time
say say say you re telling me the trip

is always a prelude

truces and undertows
a letter

a shadow wing


memorable herbs


bubbling inside me

you always

beyond me

know the sun

** *

in a fraction of the time blazing

Dans une fraction de temps

intensely there
cabbage Siam
departments honey

late frost

Nathalie Riera, May 2009

________________________ ________________________

in una di tempo frazione

heart back in the immensity

who told you about death?

gardener fate

speak means
never darkens the air

is still beyond the poem
beyond the farthest in life

I n 've learned nothing


The streams are peaceful
no fire no salt

I seek the right word to your voice

approach heightens my fingers up

water in the light of what does not remain

in a fraction of time
tell me tell you re saying is that
the trip is always a prelude

surf lulls and a letter
a shadow

pollen in the disorder

memorable herbs


bubbling inside of me

you always

fills me

I know sun


in a fraction of time
burning bright



pear sunflower sprouts ground

late frost
in a fraction of time

© Nathalie Riera, 2009

This poem was published online: http://www.bribes-en-ligne.fr/spip.php?article700

The Notebooks Eucharis No. 23, June 14, 2010: http://lescarnetsdeucharis.hautetfort.com/archive/2010/06/14/bulletin-n-23-carnets-d-eucharis- June-2010.html

Sunday, June 6, 2010

Enlarge Maxx Cock Growth At Walgreens Store

Exorcism of poetry (2)

Selected Poems of Erwin Christian Andersen :


Stripped shadows
Countdown that night
pallor of the digits in the peat

hands and singing at the turn of the razor

man knows the killing of wolves under
where the mask of the mouth lips

kills the butcher and the hook
stripped the shadows at night

assumed the weave of a word often
remugle hale and persistence
out bunkers belly
say the saga of headwinds
and birds nest in the chilly


the way of the ford the stream
sneaky awaits the traveler suddenly he springs

and grabbed him by the ankles
man surprised
wobbles resists falls
struggles over water soothed body goes

why it means the river would
he denies is that revenge
he calls a tribute ransom
water means nothing
the river is without desire
the torrent without hate there is no conspiracy

each substance has its
and sacrificed to the ephemeral
all go watch the man
belly up to the discretion of the severe flood
attentive and they
reflect the chronic
banks and drowned
count on their long fingers algae


We had a shared
sky where the birds were playing for a few

rare patches of blue
we have made war
birds fled
the sky closed
spring breakup

took everything we had to live a life

among an infinity of destinies

no other project than to live as motionless

made and unmade
stirred hiccups
sweet and luxurious
in fruit ripening
there was neither sense nor reason

but only the sky

single life we had shared a sky

will not be repeated


nails are brazen
snickers when water

to live escapes the noose cry

grass grass tilts the scythe

granite granite wife's womb and not betray
point drop


Caresses jostle
the door of my hands which
bend your body seeking

which I tear you cry I do not know

already beg your sex
your eyes say the pleasure latent
our bellies
marry and the wedding is beautiful
a young girl moans in you
her beauty overwhelms me and makes us complicit

it is gentle death at the confluence of your

legs heavy and long and held to ransom

was the gaze of the other kennel
in what and how I stop
tell me suspicious man
of every infamy
and bloodshed
my beautiful soul
do I use other
is well in your eyes I wash my

your mouth and I speak as I cut off the
eyes or cut my tongue

not change anything when I put my skeleton in the ground

will charge you in the scapula
I used as a mirror and we laugh together

discover us why would we

economy because we did litter

we slept in the same lair
traveled by the same dreams and obscene
knife between his teeth
celebrated incest pictures
this mirror you old friend the other

we know so closely and for so long you're touching

when you disarm
and m ' open the door of your arms
if I were to die soon
you're the only one that I would miss
the only


Before write
will see your poem
he waits on the threshold
why did you come
he does not know
put it in trust
you read unhurried
your poem and you read it you

eye to eye and are

random wells
people of the desert when they cross

after walking long

spell it well
every word

for the first reading because it is inevitable you will know where to

if the eyes of your poem fleeing
that it is slaughtered, the felon

if instead you feel great joy because you

your child take it in your arms
hug him
walk your fingers over his body

it difficult to ecstasy
delights to discover if his poem
finally rejoice
is a good poem


that day had risen early
he wanted to be memorable and put on his gloves
was in another time on another planet

without angles or white lines
no constraint

one would lose force in circles
I had strayed too

know we lived the same loss
when I passed him
long waiting

Erwin Christian Andersen